An Afternoon Ramble
by Radon65
Summary: Sherlock Holmes does a good deed. Of course, said deed involves lying, acting, pickpocketing, stalking, forcing John to be a distraction, running, and eventually fisticuffs... But it was a very good deed. Even the simple act of talking a walk with Sherlock Holmes can be an extraordinary experience.
1. Hypothesis

**An Afternoon Ramble**

**Chapter 1: Hypothesis**

Sherlock and John were out, talking an afternoon walk down Oxford Street, enjoying the busy streets crowded with people, and the unseasonably warm air. John had had only the morning shift at the surgery that day, and when he'd got back for lunch he could tell Sherlock was just beginning to spiral into boredom. It had been three days since the last case, and two weeks since the detective had had anything above a five. He'd been staving off the encroaching black mood with some poisons and bacteria cultures, but John knew that his brain was starting to clamour for something more interesting.

It simply wasn't enough - Sherlock needed another challenge, something worthy of his immense skill, something that would give him that shining burst of adrenalin that lit his soul on fire and sparked fervently in his bright blue eyes. A walk certainly didn't fit the bill, but since John could no more conjure up a brilliant murder mystery than he could pull pigeons out of his sleeve, he hoped that an hour or two's sojourn about the busy London streets would keep Sherlock sufficiently distracted for a little while longer. And hopefully something interesting would come up soon.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed to be enjoying himself, his eyes rapidly flicking over elderly women, gossiping teenagers, confused tourists, and businessmen, taking them all in, analysing every detail without even consciously trying. Being out and about at least gave his brain something to do, and he appreciated the city, its colour, its architecture - its presence. Sherlock loved London as much as John did, and it showed now in the slight smile on his face as they strolled along the pavement. Prodding him into getting out his chair and onto said pavement had taken a few minutes, but it had definitely been worth it, John mused, for the companionable silence they were now enjoying and the pleasant breeze that ruffled their hair.

It really was a lovely day - a few more clouds than sunrays, but they did live in England - and although Sherlock had not given up his coat to the 15 degree weather, he had left it unbuttoned to twirl and flutter about his knees, and his scarf was surprisingly absent as well. John was only wearing his jacket, and with his shorter, slightly stocky build he wondered with some amusement if he might have better cold tolerance than the great detective, and his long-limbed, skinny frame. Of course, Sherlock all but ignored the elements when he was on the trail of a criminal, and plunged immediately into rain or cold or thunderstorms if he thought it would help the case, but today, with no such burning drive dwelling in his heart, he might actually notice the temperature.

The clouds shifted as the wind picked up a little, and bright sunlight suddenly streamed down on the occupants of the pavement, lighting up their blowing hair and sharpening the colours of their clothes. John briefly shut his eyes, enjoying the gentle heat on his face after the last few days of fog and chill. March could be quite unpredictable - although John could predict that this nice weather would likely be gone by the morning, and that rain and a cooler climate would soon prevail for the next few weeks. All the more reason to spend time outside now - John hardly relished the idea of being trapped in his flat with a manic, irritated detective who had nothing to occupy his mind and was therefore slowly being devoured by the demands of his own brain.

Crap telly was useless in that sort of situation, Cluedo had been banned after their second game, and even the joys of playing with toxic chemicals would eventually be unable to reach Sherlock in the dark and smothering depression that would take hold. At times John caught Sherlock contemplating the veins in his arms, and that always set him on edge, but fortunately he had yet to see track marks there, or the wide, gaping pupils that would warn him his friend was high. Mycroft had once quietly told John that he believed the doctor's presence in his brother's life was enough to keep him grounded, to hold him back from even blacker demeanours when his mind had nothing to do. Having someone around to make him tea and argue with him and just breathe the same air in the room, not to mention being ready to go ballistic if Sherlock did indulge, kept his depression in check - and perhaps silently reminded him that he was loved.

John was pleased to think that his mere presence performed such an important service in Sherlock's life.

"God, it's nice out here, isn't it?" John commented, opening his eyes again and running his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock did not reply, and John wasn't terribly surprised - as much as Sherlock could babble away while explaining his deductions and laying out casework, he wasn't exactly a chatterbox when it came to idle conversation. At least, not about simple, terribly obvious things like stating that the weather was nice when that was pretty much the entire reason they were out here. Although John had also suggested that they take lunch when they were out - they hadn't eaten back at the flat before heading out the door - and when the two of them got hungry enough they'd find a nice place to eat and kill another hour before they went walking again.

It was a good plan for a pleasant afternoon, and John liked spending quiet time with Sherlock in between cases, where, exciting as the detective work was, John hopefully wouldn't find himself watching Sherlock butt heads with Scotland Yard, or being sent out to interview creepy family members, or standing there while a couple of policemen handed him an ABSO. Sherlock had somehow gotten the thing annulled (probably by bargaining with Mycroft), but nonetheless John hadn't entirely forgiven his flatmate for that incident, and he certainly hadn't forgotten it. Oh, well - no need to go over that again now. John caught sight of a Chinese restaurant with outside tables and wondered if Sherlock would consider it a good place for lunch.

"You hungry yet?" John asked.

Again, Sherlock didn't answer him, and now John sensed that something was not quite right. He turned his head to take a good look at his flatmate and found Sherlock gazing distractedly into the crowd, his eyes focussed on something across the street and a faint line between his eyebrows as he studied it. John glanced over in the direction Sherlock was looking, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever was consuming the detective's attention was obviously something only he could see - some subtle set of details that were invisible to John's eyes. And clearly a sight more important than the no doubt half a dozen adulterers that Sherlock would have picked out in the crowd.

"Sherlock?" John said questioningly, trying to get his attention.

"That boy," Sherlock said abruptly, almost startling John with the suddenness of his reply. "He's not supposed to be with that man."

Sherlock raised a long, pale finger and pointed among the morass of people, some wandering, some hurrying, some waiting for a bus. It took John a few moments to find who Sherlock was pointing at, and when he did spy the couple he didn't notice anything particular to warn him something was off. The man was fairly average looking - about the same height as Sherlock, maybe an inch or two shorter, and wearing a dark blue shirt with a light brown jacket thrown over it against the breeze. He had sandy hair combed sideways and apparently gelled, since it was still lying flat and not blowing about, and a short jaw accompanied by a sloping, concave nose.

At his knees walked a little boy, no more than eight or ten years old, with short cropped light brown hair and a blue and white striped tee shirt. He was skinny, but not excessively so - no more than usual for an active child his age, and his pleasant features would probably someday help him get a number of dates. The boy was holding the man's hand, and hurrying a little to keep up with him, as the man was striding determinedly along the pavement and slipping quickly through the crowd, clearly intent on wherever the two of them were going.

They looked fairly normal.

"What d'you mean he's not supposed to be with him?" John asked. "What makes you say that?"

"I've been watching them for the last couple of minutes," Sherlock said slowly, his eyes still on the pair as they moved hurriedly along. "Ever since the child tried to pick up a piece of paper from the ground."

"A piece of paper? Why should that get your attention?"

"Because I wondered what he was planning to do with it."

John shrugged.

"I dunno, could be anything. Maybe he was going to chuck it in a bin, be a good Samaritan."

"Yes, that would be a reasonable assumption," Sherlock answered back, "Except when do you usually pick up rubbish to toss in a bin?"

John gave him a blank look and Sherlock glanced away from his target of interest long enough to give John an expression that pitied his intelligence in return.

"You pick up rubbish to toss it in a bin when there's a bin about to toss it in," Sherlock explained deliberately, his tone slightly tinged with scathing. "But there are no bins on that street, not ahead of them in any case, and judging by the speed at which they're moving I doubt he intended to turn around and walk back 100 metres. Besides, there are other pieces of trash around - there's a candy bar wrapper there near the kerb, and a Tesco bag stuck against that bush, not to mention some kind of plastic container and an empty package of crisps. He's made no move to pick up any of those, despite the fact that the paper, at least, is biodegradable, and the others are not."

"Sherlock, he's about nine years old. I don't know that he's familiar with the term 'biodegradable.'"

Sherlock shrugged.

"They learn a lot of things in school these days. And if he's interested in cleaning up the planet, he might well understand the concept if not the vocabulary. Anyway, that aside, he's obviously not on a crusade to pick up rubbish since he ignored all the other bits. He was only interested in the paper."

"Okay, so?"

"So then what would he want the paper for? There didn't appear to be anything written on it, so he wasn't curious to read it. It wasn't big enough for him to fold into a paper plane or some other toy - it wasn't even the right shape, because it had been torn down the middle. And one of the corners was soiled where someone had stepped on it. Why would he want something like that?"

"Kids like funny things," John said dubiously. "Sometimes it's hard to tell why they want something. What do you think he wanted it for, then?"

Sherlock watched as the boy his chaperone were forced to stop and wait for a light.

"What else do we use paper for?"

"Um, to write on?" John suggested, and was gratified to see a pleased smile turn up the corners of Sherlock's lips.

"Exactly, John - to write on. Perhaps he wanted to write something. But why would he pick up a dirty piece of paper from the streets for such an objective, when surely he could have merely asked his father, if the man is his father - there's some family resemblance in the nose and cheekbones but my instinct would be to say uncle - when he could have asked his father or uncle for something to write on? The man might have an old receipt or something in his wallet, or he could at least get the boy something when they get to where ever they're going. Which of course brings up another question - what does this boy consider so urgent to write down that he can't wait until he reaches his destination to do it, and instead chooses to grab something off the pavement that's not even clean? And why not ask his companion for help to begin with?"

The light changed and the objects of their discussion crossed the street that ran perpendicular to the one they all stood on. They were past Sherlock and John now by about fifty feet, and as they started through the crosswalk, Sherlock, to John's mild surprise, started walking quickly in their direction, still on his side of the street but clearly reluctant to lose sight of them. John hurried after him, throwing a slightly annoyed glance at the Chinese restaurant that was now receding into the background.

"You're still assuming that he wanted to write on the paper," John pointed out as he caught up with Sherlock's swift stride. "There are plenty of other explanations. Maybe he... maybe he wanted to crumple it up into a ball and play catch with himself or something."

"Possible," Sherlock conceded. "But then that still begs the question of why he didn't ask his uncle for something first - although perhaps the idea of playing ball didn't occur to him until he saw the paper, and he didn't want to give up the opportunity of getting it until he knew for sure the uncle actually did have something."

"Maybe he did ask the uncle," John pointed out. "If you weren't watching them until the kid actually went for the paper, you could have easily missed them talking."

Sherlock threw back a slight glare at the suggestion that he could have easily missed something, despite the fact that the streets were full of people and it was, quite simply, true that Sherlock couldn't possibly have been paying attention to everyone.

"Again, it's possible," Sherlock said tightly, ruthlessly quickening his pace as he followed his targets down the street, and forcing John to almost jog to keep up with him. "But it was after I became curious about the child's designs on the paper that I started to pay more attention to them. Look at the body language between the two of them - are they talking now? No. The boy has his head down, looking at the pavement, and occasionally glancing rather skittishly at the passers-by. His uncle is essentially ignoring him, not looking at the boy at all - but he's got a death grip on the child's hand and shows no signs of letting go. Do you think the two of them have been conversing? Do you think that child would dare ask his uncle for some paper to play with? But why not? What is he afraid of? And why the man holding onto him so tightly?"

"Maybe because there are people everywhere, not to mention cars," John argued. "He doesn't want to lose the kid in the crowd, or have him wander into the street and get hit."

"I think you're right that he doesn't want to lose the boy," Sherlock agreed, hurrying across the street that the man and the child had crossed a minute ago. The two of them were still visible up ahead, walking parallel to the detective and doctor and still keeping a fairly quick pace. "But not for the altruistic reasons you just suggested. Look at them, John, really look. I don't at all think that man likes the child. He didn't speak to him before they crossed the street, as most adults do to children - 'all right, the light's green, we can go, stay with me' - he's not speaking to the boy at all. He's setting a fast pace and ignoring the fact that the boy's having trouble keeping up - and yet he insists on keeping the child very close to him, holding onto his hand and jerking him away from other people when they get too near. What's he so afraid of, then? And why is the child frightened of him?"

"Somebody else is moving pretty damn fast, too," John retorted, as did his best to match Sherlock's speed. "And ignoring the person trying to keep up with them." Sherlock glanced back and rolled his eyes, then slowed marginally to John's relief.

"You're not a child," he pointed out in a clipped tone, still moving half again as fast as his normal stride. Well, John had to admit Sherlock was right about that - he might have shorter legs than Sherlock, but he was better off than a ten year old. It was rather mean of the man across the street to move so quickly when accompanied by a little boy.

"Maybe... Maybe they had just a fight or something. Maybe the kid wanted some toy in a shop window and his uncle refused to buy it for him. And now the man's angry and so the boy's a little scared and nervous... You really think the kid looks that afraid?" John asked uncertainly, taking a closer look at the little boy's expression and trying to see as Sherlock did. Now that they were closer to the pair, the kid _did_ seem awfully nervous. His eyes were a bit too wide, and he didn't look at all comfortable with the hand surrounding his. He looked at the sea of people around him as if he wanted to flee into it, away from the man at his side. But that could still be because of a fight...

"I doubt it was just a fight," Sherlock said, answering both John's previous idea and his current thoughts. "For one thing - look at what the boy's wearing."

"What he's wearing?"

John looked again at the kid's clothes, not sure what he was supposed to be seeing. The blue and white striped tee shirt, a pair of slightly faded jeans. Trainers that looked like they got regular wear, and white cuffed socks peeping out above the high tops of the shoes. That was all. Everything seemed to fit him well enough, so surely that couldn't be what his friend was complaining about. The clothes weren't dirty or torn or damaged in any way. John shook his head, giving Sherlock a look that indicated he didn't understand what was there. What was problem Sherlock saw that John didn't?

"His jacket," Sherlock said finally, raising a hand to point again. ...Jacket?

"He's not wearing a jacket," John answered, puzzled.

"Exactly. He's not wearing a jacket, or even a jumper. It's a nice day John, but I'm not even hot in my Belstaff, and both you and our boy's lovely uncle are wearing jackets against the wind. But the child's in a tee shirt, and a fairly thin one at that. Don't you imagine that he's a bit cold?"

"Oh."

John felt rather stupid for not seeing it sooner. It wasn't as if the kid was shivering, and with how fast he was walking he was probably keeping fairly warm, but why didn't he have a jacket to protect him from the wind? Clouds had rolled back over the sun, and without the sunshine the temperature wasn't quite as pleasant. The clothes he and his uncle were wearing were reasonably new, and the uncle himself had a jacket keep him warm, so it wasn't as if they couldn't afford something for the child. Why then, were they out here without having made sure the boy was properly clothed first?

"Maybe he lost it?" John suggested slowly. "Maybe they went into a restaurant and he took it off because it was warm, and then left it on the seat by mistake?"

"They why haven't they gone back to get it?" Sherlock questioned.

"Maybe that's where they're going," John pointed out. "Why they're hurrying, to go back and get it because the kid's cold. And that might be why the uncle's mad, because the kid left it behind and now they have to go back and get it."

"John, how long do you think it would have taken them to notice if the boy had left his jacket behind? If the uncle didn't notice immediately, the child certainly would almost as soon as they stepped outside and he felt the chill. And even if it did take some time to notice, they've been walking down the street for five minutes now, at a fairly rapid pace. They haven't got back to the place yet?" Sherlock's tone was riddled with quiet incredulity. "And you say the uncle is angry - but you based that assumption on the idea that they had a fight. Look at the man's face. Does he seem angry to you?"

John had been mostly looking at the child - now he switched his attention to the man. No, the bloke didn't really look angry. If anything, _he_ looked a bit nervous too, and more determined than anything, as if where ever they were going, he'd get them there, come hell or high water.

"No," he admitted.

"So do you really think the boy left his jacket behind accidentally? Doesn't it make more sense to say that he simply wasn't wearing one to begin with? What does all that tell us?"

"You think he's being abused," John said slowly, the pieces of Sherlock's observations beginning to fall into place. The lack of affection between the two parties, the fear the boy had for his caretaker, the way the man ignored the boy's struggles to keep up and kept such a tight hold on the child's hand, and of course, the missing jacket... There were other explanations for the separate behaviours, but put together they began to form a rather unpleasant picture. John frowned, scrutinising the pair again as they walked down the street, hoping to find something to contradict the sad conclusion...

"I think he's a kidnapping victim," Sherlock corrected.

Wait, what?

"A what?" John demanded, turning quickly from his study of the boy and uncle to stare at Sherlock in shock. The detective still had his eyes on them pensively, somehow managing to navigate through the crowd of people without paying any particular attention to where he was going. "Kidnapping victim?" John spluttered. "Where are you getting that? I mean, sure, the kid's afraid of the man, but - "

"It's how they're walking," Sherlock interrupted. "Or rather, how the man is walking - and how he's looking about from time to time." Sherlock spared John another glance and gestured at the uncle. "He's walking quickly, hurriedly, determined to get where he's going, but he's also holding back a bit - he could be going faster if he chose to be, but he's not. It's because he doesn't want to be noticed. If he goes too quickly, people will notice him, and wonder what precisely he's hurrying to or from."

"He's got the kid with him, and the kid can't go that fast, at least not very well..." John protested.

"Yes, which would only make him more obvious to passers-by," Sherlock said firmly. "He obviously doesn't care about the comfort of the child, and he could make the boy keep up with him if he wanted to go faster, but people would see him hurrying madly, and ignoring the boy struggling at his heels. He'd be notable. People would remember him. And that's precisely what he doesn't want."

"And that makes you think kidnapping," John said incredulously. "If he's kidnapped that boy, then why would he be walking down one of the busiest streets in London in the first place?"

"_Because_ it's one of the busiest streets in London. He can hide in plain sight. So many CCTV cameras, but so many people to obscure him from them. And then look at how he's glancing around him. _Look_ at him, John," Sherlock urged. "He's nervous of the people, he's making sure they're not paying attention to him, making sure they don't recognise him. I've seen that sort of behaviour over and over among criminals. He's trying to use the crowd as cover, but at the same time he's afraid of it. He wants to get where he's going as fast as possible, but he also doesn't want people to remember him, so he's forced to go more slowly. And he keeps the child right next to him, always holding onto him, pulling him closer if people walk by too near. He doesn't want the boy to get away."

With how quickly Sherlock had been walking, they had nearly caught up to the pair, and were now practically parallel to them across the street, providing the best view so far of the suspicious man and child. The man certainly was looking about at the people, and seemed to be nervous of them, and as John watched a group of teenage girls passed, giggling, and almost brushing into the little boy, distracted by their laughter. The uncle hauled the child quickly to one side, nearly bumping into himself in his fervor, while the boy glanced over his shoulder at the group of girls, looking as if he wanted to call out to them but was too afraid. John glanced at the scene, shaking his head, half-convinced by Sherlock's tirade and yet still unwilling to jump suddenly from probable child abuse to kidnapping.

"And then there's the paper," Sherlock added.

Paper? What - oh. Back to the paper again, the first thing that attracted Sherlock's attention to the child. John had nearly forgotten about it with everything else Sherlock had been saying.

"What about the paper?" John asked.

"Why would the boy want it?" Sherlock reiterated. "What possible reason would he have for picking up a torn, dirty piece of paper off the pavement - not to throw away, and likely not to play with if we consider the uncle's probable reaction to that sort of thing. He doesn't like the child, and doesn't want attention drawn to the pair, so he probably wouldn't be pleased at the concept of the boy throwing a paper ball about. Plus, he's not likely to let go of the boy's hand, leaving him with only one hand available to toss and catch. So that brings us back to the idea that the boy planned to write something."

"You think he wanted to write a note asking for help?" John concluded.

Sherlock nodded.

"I think it's a distinct possibility. He wouldn't ask his kidnapper for paper, of course - not only is he too afraid to make any request, something like that would immediately arouse suspicion. I don't know if the boy has a writing utensil, but he might have been able to hide one on him - most schoolchildren have easy access to pencils and the like, and he might have had one when he was taken away. If not, he might be hoping to find one on the pavement like the paper. But you've seen the way he keeps looking at people, wishing they could help him. He's too frightened to simply start shouting for help - I'm sure his uncle was suitably threatening - but he realises that if he could pass along a note, he might be able to alert someone to his plight."

"Didn't his uncle notice him trying to get the paper in the first place?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. He noticed the boy paused, but I don't think he realised why. Probably assumed the boy tripped. He glared at him, moved them faster, and the child didn't have time to grab the paper as they hurried off."

Sherlock stared at the man intently from behind a young couple walking a dog, and the first time John detected a hint of distaste and anger in his manner, beyond the mere analytical side he'd been displaying so far. John watched the man pull the boy past a couple of telephone booths, and boy's eyes lingering on the red structures as they moved past.

"But it's still conjecture," John said slowly, although by now he really was beginning to believe it. "We have to be careful how we act."

"Of course, John," Sherlock agreed. "It's a theory. So come on."

He picked up speed again, this time taking them past the boy and uncle, and taking John by surprise. Surely if Sherlock thought the boy had been kidnapped, he wasn't abandoning the child to his fate?

"Where are we going?" John asked. "You're not just leaving, are you?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Of course not. I'm going to test the theory and find out if it's true. Hurry up. We'll cross at the next light."

**To Be Continued**

* * *

I seem to using chapter titles for the first time... Fun.


	2. Experiment

**Chapter 2: Experiment**

In a matter of minutes, they were across the street and ahead of the man and the boy by about 30 metres, pausing in front of a jewelry shop with a large window display. Sherlock looked critically at his reflection and plunged his fingers in his hair, stirring his curls up into an even more wild mess than they already were from the wind. Then he grabbed John's shoulders and shoved him to face the glass, positioning him directly in front of a collection of gaudy sapphire necklaces. He turned John's jacket collar up and glanced quickly up the street.

"All right," he said quietly. "Just stand there, nicely inconspicuous. Eyes on the jewelry. Pretend you're window shopping for your girlfriend or something. When they get up here in a minute, I'm going to stop them and ask for directions. Listen in and see what you can see from the reflection, but don't turn around and don't move until we've finished and they've walked off. Once they're past you a short ways, meet me behind those telephone booths down there, but walk casually in case he looks. Ready?"

"Okay," John agreed, and the word was barely out of his mouth before Sherlock was gone. He'd pattered away to John's right, in the same direction their targets were walking, but after about 30 seconds John saw him out of the corner of his eye, meandering back the opposite way, and so towards the approaching pair. He was glancing around at the buildings and street signs, looking lost, and stopping now and then in apparent confusion, which, John knew, was so that he could run into the man and ostensibly kidnapped child as close to the jewelry store window as possible. In another moment, John could see Sherlock reflected in the glass, and leaned forward studiously to appear as if he were considering the shiny baubles, his heart rate speeding up a little as the sandy haired bloke and the frightened boy appeared a moment later.

"Um, excuse me. Excuse me, sorry, d'you know where I could find Hudson Street?"

Sherlock walked up to the couple, smiling hopefully, his voice a shade or two higher than its usual rich baritone, probably, John figured, to make himself seem less intimidating. The man paused in surprise, seeming quite nervous at being addressed, and clutched the boy's hand tightly in his as he seemed to almost lean away from Sherlock. The boy, for his part, stood watching the newcomer with wide eyes and glanced between the two men, swallowing hard.

"No, sorry, never heard of it," the man said quickly, starting to walk again and tugging the boy along. Sherlock stepped directly in front of them, halting their progress abruptly.

"Then maybe you've heard of the Black Piper Pub?" he suggested. "I'm supposed to meet my mates and I just can't find the place."

"No, I don't think - " the man began, trying to step around Sherlock's tall frame.

"They told me it was right off Hudson," Sherlock interrupted, moving slightly sideways to once again thwart his adversary's attempts to get away. He now sounded slightly tipsy, and John had to work very hard not to giggle. He kept his eyes focussed mostly on the boy, although he doubted he was going to see anything that Sherlock wasn't already seeing in ten times the detail. The child was smiling in a trembly manner, seeming amused too by Sherlock's performance, but as the two men talked above him, he began to edge away slowly from the bloke holding his hand.

"I don't know," the man was saying in an annoyed tone, his nervousness somewhat abated by Sherlock's slightly drunken demeanor. "Ask someone else, we're in a hurry - "

"Oh, that's fine," Sherlock said airily and seemingly obliviously, not moving from his spot. He suddenly turned to address the child. "Do _you_ know where it is?" he asked pleasantly.

The man's reaction was immediate. His expression instantly became hostile, and he stepped quickly between the boy and Sherlock before the former could give out any sort of answer.

"My... son does not know where to find a pub!" he snapped. "Now go ask someone else and stop bothering us!"

He stepped quickly to the side and started to move to past Sherlock, but the detective staggered slightly and bumped into him, knocking the man off balance and briefly halting the pair again.

"Sorry," Sherlock apologised as the two of them swayed. "I've been doing that lately, I'm not sure why..."

"Possibly because you're drunk!" the man hissed angrily, righting himself and shoving past Sherlock, not to be stopped this time.

Sherlock let them go, watching after them with a confused expression, as if he didn't understand why the man had gotten so annoyed. The boy looked back at him regretfully, and then his reflection disappeared from the window, and John watched Sherlock alone stumble off down the street before his reflection too, disappeared. John stayed staring at the window for several more moments, having practically forgotten about the jewelry while listening to the conversation. It was really all rather ugly, John thought, and he certainly wouldn't pay 1,500 pounds for a pendant that looked like a five year-old had designed it in art class. Slowly, he shook his head, as if deciding against the purchase, and wandered off down the street, glancing at the other shops as if they might give him inspiration for his faux gift for a faux girl.

He reached the telephone booths in less than a minute and ducked behind them to find Sherlock already there, the drunken confusion gone from his face and his eyes gazing avidly at his phone as he typed and scrolled, clearly looking for something.

"So what did you - ?" John began, but Sherlock cut him off gleefully.

"Did you see how he reacted when I talked to the boy? Jumping in front of him like that, he couldn't have been more obvious. And he stammered before he called the child 'son' - he had to think about that for a moment. Now, I'm just confirming that - aha!"

Sherlock grinned triumphantly and held his phone out for John to see.

He had found a news website with a missing child report, nine year-old James Merridoc, last seen with his uncle, William Merridoc, who had also disappeared. The boy's parents feared William had taken little Jimmy in order to pressure them to give him money, as he was badly broke due to his gambling addiction and they had refused to help him. No ransom demand had been made yet, but Jimmy had been missing now for almost three days, and his desperate parents were begging for information from anyone who might have seen him, offering a reward of 100 pounds and hoping no harm had come to him. The pictures displayed matched perfectly.

"How did you - ?" John started to ask, only for Sherlock to interrupt him again.

"I picked his pocket before he left," the detective explained, shoving a worn wallet into John's hands that was filled with credit cards and had nothing but a five pound note lodged in the billfold. "His driver's license is in there - I just looked his name up online and there he is! He's even the boy's uncle," Sherlock added smugly, smiling at his phone as he typed something else in. John searched through William Merridoc's wallet and pulled out the driver's license, glancing at it briefly before putting it back in. His picture was displayed, unsmiling, beside his birth date and the organ donor symbol.

"Great," John said. "Now we know. And now you're a pickpocket," he added less enthusiastically. "Hopefully that won't cause any major problems when Merridoc gets arrested?"

Sherlock snorted.

"We'll be returning a boy to his parents - the police are hardly going to care. But it doesn't matter, anyway - you're going to give it back."

"I'm what?" John asked, as Sherlock thumbed the website closed, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and hurried out from behind the telephone booths.

"Come on, John, we'll lose them!" he said sharply, rushing back along the pavement toward the jewelry shop, his eyes searching amid the flowing crowd for William Merridoc and his nephew Jimmy.

And once again, John hurried after him, doing his best to follow him in the crush of people, his brain whizzing back and forth as it tried to decipher what Sherlock was planning. Sherlock didn't slow down for him this time, and it took John several moments to catch up, his shorter legs moving rapidly to match his flatmate's long strides. Sherlock was sliding through the crowd like a snake through grass, practically dancing as he avoided shoppers and mothers with strollers and a university student on a bike, his whole attention on finding his quarry again before they moved somewhere beyond reach.

"Sherlock," John said as he moved swiftly in his friend's wake, "Why am I giving it back?"

Oh, Sherlock might want John to hand it back so he'd be out of trouble, but his fingerprints would still be on the wallet if anyone cared to look, and they might care once they started to ask how Sherlock had recognised the Merridocs. Although the two of them could always claim that they'd found it on the pavement, looked through it to see whose it was, and then searched for his name on the internet before happening to see him in the crowd. The police might buy it. But then Sherlock didn't seem to care if they knew he'd pickpocketed Merridoc or not. No, no, John imagined his giving back the wallet was some part of a grander scheme, some secret plan Sherlock had that apparently didn't yet involve calling the police...

"There!" Sherlock said suddenly, stopping so quickly that John crashed into him, and then looking annoyed at being jostled. He pointed into the crowd of people again, and John just glimpsed the Merridocs past a couple of old men who seemed to be laughing over some joke. "Good, I didn't imagine they'd get away in less than three minutes, but it's better if we can see them."

"Sherlock," John repeated, as Sherlock quickly started walking again, relaxing slightly now that their targets were back in sight and slowing just a hair in deference to John's smaller stature. "Sherlock, are you planning to call the police?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently, waving that suggestion away with a hand as he slipped between a bicycle rack and woman on her mobile phone. "But later - right now, we're running out of time."

"Running out of time?"

John felt a spark of cold fear light in the back of his mind. Did Sherlock think William was about to harm his nephew? John hadn't seen anything to indicate that, but he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Was William planning to beat the boy and then send the pictures to his parents to help persuade them? Or had the parents been wrong about his intentions and his real plan was to murder their son? That seemed unlikely, since it had been three days and the boy was still alive, but then John hadn't even suspected William Merridoc of kidnapping twenty minutes ago. What did Sherlock mean they were running out of time? What had he seen, once again, that John had failed to?

"Tube station," Sherlock said, answering John's thoughts as they hurried along.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, his brain taking a moment to catch up.

"They're heading for the Tube station," Sherlock explained tightly, unconsciously quickening his steps and forcing John to work harder to keep up again. "That almost has to be where they're going and they'll reach it in just a few minutes. If we let them get in there, there's less room to maneuver and we might lose them. And that's Oxford Circus. There are three different lines they can get on, and no matter which one they pick they can change at the very next stop. We don't know when or where they're getting off, I don't have enough data to deduce that, and police reaction will likely be too slow to do any good. All we'll able to tell the police is that we saw the Merridocs around here and that if they search the entire Tube system, they _might_ find them before they get off."

"You took his wallet," John pointed out. "Doesn't that mean you've got his Oyster card?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Wasn't one in there. It's possible he keeps it separate, or he's planning to pay with change – I felt some in his pocket when I got the wallet out."

"Well, won't he turn round when he goes for it and notices his wallet's gone?"

Sherlock shrugged, dodging around a yapping Terrier puppy.

"Possibly. Perhaps not. We can't afford to take that chance."

"If we tell the station workers, they can stop the trains," John said breathlessly, wishing Sherlock would slow down.

"If they can do it fast enough," Sherlock pointed out. "And besides, if they do that, Merridoc will realise someone's found him and we might end up with a hostage situation on our hands. I don't think he's armed, but I couldn't tell for certain, and if he can't take a train car hostage, he can always threaten to snap the boy's neck."

Damn, Sherlock had a point.

"So what are we going to do?" John demanded, as Sherlock ducked unexpectedly into a side street and stopped. John leaned over against the wall briefly to rest as Sherlock produced William Merridoc's wallet.

"You," Sherlock said, pushing the wallet into John's hands, "Are going to be a distraction."

Less than two minutes later, John was hurrying up the street again, this time alone and clutching William Merridoc's wallet tightly in his sweaty palm. He was getting rather tired of rushing about - they'd already been walking for an hour before this whole debacle and now John's feet were starting to complain about his mad dashes here and there. Oh, well. If this worked, he was just going to have to run around even more, so he supposed he'd better get used to it. Up ahead, he could see William and Jimmy still moving determinedly toward the Tube station. Well, William was moving determinedly - Jimmy was just trying to keep up and probably wasn't anymore keen on entering the Tube station than John was to let them. His eyes traced the narrow side street coming up and he slowed briefly to give the Merridocs more time to get near it. He was supposed to time the encounter so that he got William's attention just before they reached the street, where Sherlock, damn his long legs, was probably already waiting.

Sherlock couldn't give back the wallet, he'd pointed out, because they'd already seen him, and so that task would fall to John and his mediocre acting skills. John couldn't completely shift his personality and character the way Sherlock could, but the part he'd be playing wasn't too far off from his own self, so it ought to be all right. The main problem, they'd agreed, would be to get William to let go of Jimmy's hand for a few moments, and John only hoped that he could distract William sufficiently to make Sherlock's idea work. It was all about catching him off guard, Sherlock had said - this sort of thing worked all the time for stage magicians and the like, because if you got people thinking about something other than what they should be thinking about, you could manipulate their reflexes and get them walk right into what you wanted them to do. The Merridocs drew closer to the alley, and John sped up again, now only about fifteen feet behind them, another couple of seconds and he could shout...

"Hey! Hey, uh, sir! 'Xcuse me! Hey, mister!"

Just as they reached the edge of the tiny side street, Merridoc realised that it was he who was being hailed and stiffened, turning around slowly as, no doubt, he thought for a brief moment that he'd been found out. Well, he _had_ been found out, and if he'd run their back up plan was to just have Sherlock tackle him, but fortunately as they had predicted, Merridoc's fears were soothed a moment later as he caught sight of John, no spark of recognition in his eyes, and no anger or suspicion, just honest-looking John waving his hand in the air and apparently not even knowing the name of the man he was addressing. John hurried the last couple of feet to Merridoc and paused for a moment with his hand against the brick wall of a clothing store, making a minor show of getting his breath back and holding a finger in the air to indicate that, in a moment, he did have something to say.

It was while John was giving his little breathing performance that Sherlock leaned out just a hair from where he had flattened himself against the wall of the alley, or at least as best he'd been able to while crouching, and found Jimmy Merridoc to be standing barely two feet away from him. It was with his left hand that William Merridoc was clutching his nephew, presumably his dominant, and as he'd turned around to see who John was and what he wanted, the boy had switched from standing on the street side of the pavement to standing on the shop side, with his uncle now between him and the cars that sped down Oxford Street. Sherlock could have reached out and touched him. For the moment, neither the boy nor his uncle had noticed Sherlock, silently poking his head out just above the level of William Merridoc's knees, and Sherlock prayed that no passers by would notice either, and spoil the whole thing. John naturally was doing everything in his power to avoid looking at him, and now smiled disarmingly at William as he finished his breathing exercises.

"Sorry," John said, doing an admirable job of continuing to pant, "But I couldn't get your attention back there and I had to run..."

"Er, that's fine," William said uncertainly. He threw a glance over his shoulder at the Tube station, not fifty feet away. "...Can I help you?" he said quickly.

Target engaged! Now Sherlock could only hope that the boy was as mature as he seemed.

"_Jimmy_," Sherlock hissed, his voice not rising above a whisper. The boy started and glanced around, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Sherlock not an arm's length from where he was standing. Sherlock held a finger to his lips, and Jimmy looked briefly confused before his face lit up with hope, clearly understanding this peculiar stranger's aim. He nodded without saying a word, his eyes flicking briefly between John talking to his uncle, and Sherlock grinning at him conspiratorily from where he crouched at the mouth of the alley. Excellent. The boy was clever - he knew the second stranger was a plant. William didn't notice this revelation, his slightly nervous attention all on John.

"Well, I hope I'm helping you," the doctor in question said just a little bit loudly, reaching into his jacket pocket with a jovial manner. He was channeling Mike Stamford, Sherlock thought with amusement, and as John pulled the wallet out to show to William, Jimmy, to Sherlock's delight, took a careful step sideways, drawing nearer to the detective but without jostling the hand his uncle still clung to like a limpet. "I think you got pickpocketed back there," John explained, waving the wallet in the air. "I was across the street when I saw that guy bump into you, and a minute later there he is looking through this."

"What?" William exclaimed in shock, recognising the wallet.

Under the cover the conversation happening above, Sherlock indicated the man with his eyes.

"_When he lets go of you_," he all but mouthed to Jimmy. "_Come with me_."

The boy nodded again, obviously trying to contain his excitement. As glad as he was to be rescued, and perhaps as exciting as it might be to a nine year-old to be snatched away from under his kidnapper's nose, Sherlock could tell he understood the gravity of the situation and didn't want to ruin their chances. Children were often surprising in what they knew and comprehended, and Sherlock tried hard not to underestimate them as so many adults did. That trait not infrequently helped him solve cases, and now it was helping him to thwart William Merridoc's plans.

"Yeah, the way he was looking at it, it didn't look like his," John went on. "And when I noticed him talking to you, he seemed like he was drunk, but when he was going through your wallet he sure looked sober enough."

William ran his free hand down his face.

"Unbelievable," he muttered. "I can't believe I fell for..."

"Oh, it's not your fault," John said good-naturedly. "These creeps practice their act all the time, it's a living to them."

"Wait, how did you get it?" William asked abruptly, suddenly realising with some suspicion that if he'd been pickpocketed, the pickpocket should have his wallet. John rolled his eyes.

"The idiot dropped it," he explained. "I was heading over to confront him, and then he shoved it back in his pocket. But he didn't get it in properly and it fell out. I picked it up off the pavement. Here."

John handed William the wallet and the man took it, looking grateful.

"Well, thanks," he said. "Did... did you call the police?"

John shook his head.

"No, he disappeared down a side street a few moments later, and I wanted to be sure I caught up with you. He's probably long gone. But I could call them if you wanted...?"

"Oh no, that's not necessary," William said hurriedly. "No, I'm sure you're right, he's gone and there's no sense bothering them about it if I have the wallet back..."

He started to put it away. Sherlock tensed as John delivered his next line perfectly, just the right mix of casual and concerned.

"Oh, but you ought to check to be sure he didn't take anything out," John advised. "It was hard to tell, and he still might have made off with one of your credit cards..."

Sherlock could almost see John mentally holding his breath, hoping for the right reaction, thinking come on, come on... because Sherlock was thinking it, too.

William paused in putting the wallet away and nodded, realising that John was right, and quite eager to make sure that a pickpocket wasn't off trying to spend what little money he might have left - and giving away one of his latest locations to the police in doing so.

"Of course, thank you," he said fervently, lifting his wallet back out and opening it, starting to flip through the cards.

It was an action he could not perform one-handed, at least not without concentrating and fiddling around with his fingers.

And he wasn't concentrating, he wasn't thinking at all, his only concern right at the moment was checking his wallet to make sure everything was there...

...And Jimmy Merridoc now stood, completely free as his uncle leafed carefully through his many credit cards.

"_Now_," Sherlock said in the barest whisper.

Jimmy took a breath, looked up at his uncle, and edged silently into the alley next to Sherlock, who melted back behind the brick in a heartbeat, taking the boy with him.

Jimmy opened his mouth as they stepped quickly and quietly down the tiny street, but Sherlock put his finger to his lips again and shook his head. Jimmy nodded solemnly and stayed silent as Sherlock directed him to the next corner and they turned off onto another alley. Sherlock was listening intently for any sign that Merridoc had caught on yet, ready to run like hell if he heard one. But so far, all was quiet - they were making a clean getaway, and would be able to talk soon. Sherlock wanted to grab of hold Jimmy's hand, to be sure the boy would stay with him when they stepped out of the small back alleys and returned to busier streets, but he was hesitant to initiate that sort of contact when that had been precisely how William had been keeping hold of him. If Sherlock reached for his hand, Jimmy might reflexively feel threatened, and end up running from him, which would of course cause further problems.

All was still quiet behind them as they hurried out of the alley and into Hanover Square, the new crowds of people, smaller than the ones on Oxford Street but no less busy, a reassuring sight. They could lose themselves soon enough, especially since Sherlock knew the best routes to immediately confuse any pursuers. And of course John would do his best to keep William busy and off on the wrong trail.

"We can talk now," he informed Jimmy gently, pulling out his phone. Jimmy looked up at him with wide eyes, still a little shaken at what he'd done, but smiling broadly.

"Are you here to take me back to Mummy and Daddy?" he asked.

Sherlock paused before raising the phone to dial.

"Yes," he said earnestly. "And right now I'm going to call the police, so they can come and get your uncle, who is hopefully still attached to my friend back there."

"Cool!" Jimmy said enthusiastically. "Am I gonna get to ride in a squad car?"

Sherlock smiled - the boy was certainly recovering quickly enough.

"Perhaps," he answered, daring to place a hand on Jimmy's back to steer him toward Grosvenor Brook. The boy didn't protest the gesture or react adversely, which was encouraging. Sherlock found Lestrade's number on his contacts list and pressed to call the Detective Inspector. Three rings and the phone was picked up.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade answered, clearly surprised by the call. Sherlock rarely called Lestrade when he wasn't working a case for him, and he hadn't even spoken to anyone from Scotland Yard in a week.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said briskly. "I need the nearest available squad car to Oxford Street, just by the Oxford Circus Tube stop to be precise. William Merridoc's there with John, although they'll probably be moving pretty soon."

"William who?" Lestrade asked. "Who's he? What's he done?"

"William Merridoc," Sherlock repeated. "Kidnapped his nephew - who is with me right now, by the way. He's fine. But I want his uncle arrested."

Sherlock put a little grim emphasis on the last words. Lestrade agreed readily enough.

"Yeah, okay, lemme put you on hold..."

There was a click and the line went quiet in Sherlock's ear.

Jimmy was look up at him as they walked.

"Are you a policeman?" he asked, his brow crinkling slightly as he tried to make sense of what Sherlock was.

"No." Sherlock shook his head and grinned. "I just know a lot of them." It suddenly occurred to him that he failed to introduce himself to the boy, who naturally wouldn't know his name. But it would be good for the boy to know it - it would make things more personable, and although Jimmy seemed to trust him completely at present, it wouldn't hurt to solidify things a bit. "I'm Sherlock," he said amicably, switching the phone to his left hand so he could extend his right down to shake.

"Jimmy," the boy said as he accepted Sherlock's hand and shook it firmly, seeming pleased to know his rescuer's name.

"And I'm a detective," Sherlock elaborated as they reached Grosvner Brook and turned down it. "That's how I knew who you were. I could tell something was wrong when I saw you trying to pick up that paper."

Jimmy eyebrows went into his hairline.

"You're a detective?" he said excitedly. "Awesome! And you knew just by looking? Nobody else did!"

"That's why _I'm_ a detective," Sherlock said in a self-satisfied tone. It was nice to have his skill appreciated by someone other than John. "You wanted the paper to write on, yes?"

"I was going to see if I could find a pencil too, and then slip a note to somebody who looked smart. Not like those stupid girls," Jimmy said with a childish grimace, sticking his tongue out in disgust. He must be referring to the teenagers who'd passed him not long before Sherlock's drunken bystander act. Sherlock laughed.

"Yes, they did look like idiots, didn't they?" he agreed, putting his hand briefly on Jimmy's shoulder to keep him from crashing into an older woman with groceries. Again Jimmy didn't seem bothered by the gesture, and Sherlock considered that now it might be all right to take hold of his hand. His phone suddenly crackled back to life in his ear.

"Okay, squad car sent," Lestrade reported. "I just looked up the Merridoc case - he's been gone for three days, the parents are frantic. How's the kid?"

"I told you, he's fine," Sherlock reiterated. "We're both perfectly all right. It's John who's still back there with William. He's - oh."

Sherlock suddenly realised. He leaned down slightly to speak to Jimmy.

"Did your uncle have any weapons?" he asked. "A knife, or a gun?"

Jimmy nodded.

"He had a knife from the kitchen in his jacket pocket," he said solemnly. "On the inside. He said he would hurt me with it if I told anybody he took me."

For the first time since his daring escape, Jimmy looked uncomfortable.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. Stupid! He should have asked earlier... "He's got a knife," he told Lestrade. "I'm going to text John."

"Okay, but where are - " Lestrade started to ask, but Sherlock hung up on him and started to text immediately. Lestrade's questions weren't important.

John was.

**To Be Continued**

* * *

Amusing rejected ideas for getting Merridoc to let go of his nephew's hand, along with my comments upon the conception of those ideas...

piss him off so much he lets go of it

make him sneeze?

make him let go of Jimmy so the kid can give John a hug? NO

pretend to rob him so he puts his hands up? then why are we giving the damn wallet back? plus, if he has a weapon, that might prompt him to get it out

shake his hand! (there were eight exclamation points on that, but the doc editor edited them out)

if he looks through the wallet, won't he want to use both hands?


End file.
